Before I Am Old
by Maeglin
Summary: Even the Dark Lord was once a child.


Before I Am Old  
  
by Maeglin Yedi  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Warnings: none  
  
Disclaimer: The characters from Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling. No money made. Just playing around with them.  
  
Feedback: most welcome, maeglin.yedi @ lycos.nl  
  
Summary: Even the Dark Lord was once a child.  
  
A/N: First story in my Tom Riddle Series, exploring the life of young Tom Riddle and how he became Lord Voldemort.  
  
Big thanks to Gina and Nimori for the instant beta!  
  
------------  
  
"That's my porridge! Give that back!" Tom pipes when seven-year-old Derrick Crowe elbows him after he grabs Tom's bowl of lukewarm breakfast.  
  
Tom glares at Derrick, despite the fact that he knows he is no match for the older and larger boy. He's only five after all, but at Abbey Home you're practically considered an adult at four, so Tom knows no one will come to his aid and he is left to fend for himself.  
  
He's hungry. And angry.  
  
Derrick smirks at him, ladling the porridge -- *his* porridge -- into his big mouth.  
  
"Give that back!" Tom tries again, more urgent now, sharp surges of fury rising from the pit of his stomach and clouding his vision.  
  
But Derrick continues to eat, and, as if it takes him no effort at all, he pushes Tom right off his chair. Landing on his scrawny buttocks, Tom swallows back a yelp, and glares up at Derrick, gritting his teeth.  
  
Before anyone knows what happens, Derrick's spoon flies up and stabs him in his left eye. With a loud cry, Derrick jumps up, covering his wounded eye with both hands. Tom feels an odd sense of satisfaction when he sees a few small drops of blood drip down Derrick's cheek.  
  
But his private moment of victory is brutally interrupted when the director pulls Tom off the floor by his ear and drags him out of the hall, down the corridor, and into his office.  
  
"Mr Riddle!" the director says accusingly, crossing his arms. "How dare you attack a fellow student!"  
  
"But I didn't....he stole my –"  
  
"And how dare you address me in that tone."  
  
"But, Sir, I didn't do anything," Tom protests weakly, already knowing the director will punish him anyway but not quite willing to accept the punishment without giving the director his side of the story. "Derrick stole my –"  
  
"Be silent, Riddle." The director steps up to the small cupboard behind his desk, and Tom bites his bottom lip, knowing full well what that means.  
  
"Twenty blows for your unacceptable behavior. We will teach you obedience yet, Riddle."  
  
Tom doesn't protest. He knows it is futile to protest at this stage. It would only earn him more blows. Pursing his lips, he steps up to the desk and starts unbuttoning his patched trousers, lowering them to the floor before pushing his stained underpants down.  
  
"Just because you have no parents doesn't mean you can go against law and order and the will of our good Lord, Riddle," the director says as he stands behind Tom.  
  
Turning, Tom places his small hands against the edge of the desk and bends just a bit, exposing his pale buttocks.  
  
"Count."  
  
Tom closes his eyes, the silence in the room penetrated by the dull sound of wood striking against flesh and a young boy's sharp inhale of breath.  
  
"One."  
  
"You will obey your superiors, Riddle."  
  
Strike. Inhale.  
  
"Two."  
  
"You will leave your fellow students alone, Riddle."  
  
Strike. Inhale. Searing, annoying pain burning his buttocks.  
  
"Three."  
  
"You will –"  
  
Tom shuts the director's monotone voice out, already knowing this speech by heart since this isn't the first time he finds himself in this position and it will certainly not be his last.  
  
Strike. Inhale. Swallowing against stinging tears.  
  
Tears are useless in Abbey Home.  
  
Tom learned that a long time ago, and trying to remember that exact moment when he made the decision never to cry again makes him feel old even at his very young age.  
  
"Four."  
  
When he reaches twenty, his bum feels like it is on fire and Tom knows he won't be able to sit properly for at least two days. He takes a deep breath, pulling up his trousers as the director puts the paddle away and grabs his arm.  
  
The walk to the courtyard is familiar, and Tom keeps his gaze lowered as they pass a group of students. Or inmates, as some rather call themselves. The door of the coal shed creaks open and the director pushes him inside.  
  
The darkness after the director shuts and locks the door is familiar as well, and Tom crawls towards the spot – his spot – in the left corner of the shed. Wrapping his arms around himself, Tom huddles on the cold floor and closes his eyes.  
  
It's easy to pretend he's somewhere else when he's locked inside the shed. Much easier than when he's sleeping in his dormitory, surrounded by dozens of parentless boys who cry silent tears for a mother they never knew before falling asleep every night. Easier than when he's eating in the hall, always on the look-out for older and stronger boys who have no qualms about stealing a child's meager meal. And easier than when he's cramped inside a drafty class room, desperately trying to learn so he won't give his teachers any reason to keep him after class for lectures and punishment.  
  
It's so easy to imagine his mother while he's surrounded by darkness and silence, and despite the stench and filth around him he can see her beautiful face in his mind's eye. She's always beautiful, just like his father is always strong. And they're rich, of course.  
  
And one day they will come for him, and they will take him home to a life where he doesn't have to fight for his food or he's paddled for every mistake he makes. They take him home and treat him like someone special instead of a nuisance to society, draining tax money decent people have to cough up for vermin like him.  
  
Tom always feels special when he is alone with his thoughts inside the dark, dusty shed.  
  
If only he could continue to feel special once that door opens again and light drives his perfect world away.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Tom isn't in the least bit surprised when ten-year-old Derrick Crowe and his band of cronies corner him outside the dormitory before breakfast. Gazing up into Derrick's eyes – the left one eerie white since Derrick never fully got his sight back after the incident with the spoon – Tom smirks and feels oddly calm as the adrenaline surges through his body.  
  
He's angry. Which is a very good thing, since Tom has learned that whenever he feels angry, weird, unexplainable things happen. Things that always aid him. And earn him more blows and nights in the coal shed than any of the other inmates.  
  
Because of those things, most inmates avoid him like the plague. They don't play with him, talk to him or even look at him.  
  
And Tom likes it that way. So he lives on anger. Thrives on anger.  
  
Anger is what's keeping him alive in Abbey Home.  
  
Only Derrick and a handful of other, mostly older, bullies seek him out from time to time. But never alone, ever since Mark Holl cornered him the previous year by himself, and broke his arm in three places without really knowing what happened.  
  
It had earned Tom fifty blows and three nights in the shed, which he hadn't minded that much. The darkness was familiar and comfortable, after all.  
  
"Get the freak!" Derrick shouts, and three older, taller, stronger boys throw themselves at Tom, hitting and kicking every part of Tom's scrawny body they can reach.  
  
Tom is angry. Very angry. And it feels so good that his anger morphs to hate, and that feels even better. Pure hate, which inflames his senses until he knows something will happen.  
  
The double doors to the dormitory slam shut, the two small windows edged into the wood shattering into a thousand pieces, shards of glass raining down on Tom and his assailants.  
  
"Let's go!" Derrick shouts, and the boys release Tom, turn on their feet and disappear around the corner.  
  
Tom is left behind, sprawled on the floor, covered in glass, his lip split and blood dripping from his nose.  
  
"Mr Riddle. I can't say that I'm surprised that you're once again responsible for this mess."  
  
Tom isn't surprised to hear the director's voice, either.  
  
"You are a pest, Riddle." A ruthless hand grabs Tom's hair and pulls him to his feet. "A useless waste of space."  
  
Letting the director lead him to his office, Tom doesn't protest. There isn't anything to protest against, because Tom believes every word the director says about him. It's all anyone has ever said about him.  
  
"Thirty blows and two nights in the shed, Riddle. If you are too stupid to learn proper behavior, you will have to bear the consequences, like the juvenile delinquent that you are. Lord knows why you didn't die alongside your parents, because surely you have no chance of ever being more than the good-for-nothing annoyance that you already are."  
  
Tom doesn't say a word, but unbuttons his trousers and drops them. Thirty blows. Uncomfortable, but hardly painful anymore. Tom has suffered too many blows already for them to be anything than a minor discomfort.  
  
And two nights in the shed. Perfect. Two nights of being someone other than the useless criminal everyone thinks he is. Two nights of darkness in which he can be anyone he wants to be.  
  
Strike. Inhale. Smile.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Even though his back aches and his knees are sore, Tom doesn't mind scrubbing the corridor's floor on his hands and knees. He hasn't been given kitchen duty again ever since the incident last year, when one of the cook's knives mysteriously embedded itself in William Kraft's foot.  
  
So Tom is stuck scrubbing the floors of Abbey Home when he isn't in class or doing his homework or locked in the shed. He doesn't mind, because it's more time away from the rest of the inmates. More time for himself.  
  
Leaning towards the zinc bucket, he submerges the brush in the cold water, sloshing it over the sides, and continues to scrub the wooden floorboards.  
  
"Riddle, the director wants to see you at once."  
  
Tom looks up and sees one of the younger inmates standing a safe distant away. He gives the boy a quick nod, and smirks when young Richard Claridge flees as fast as his thin legs can carry him.  
  
It amuses Tom that everyone is afraid of him, even though he never hurts anyone unless they hurt him. But the inmates avoid him, treat him like a leper, like the freak Derrick Crowe tells everyone he is.  
  
Tom doesn't mind being a freak, if that means people leave him alone and don't try to steal his food or beat him up every chance they get.  
  
Wiping his wet hands on his torn trousers, Tom gets up, and makes his way to the director's office. He doesn't even wonder why he is called there, and just assumes he's deserved more punishment. The director seems to have a fondness for paddling his bare bottom, after all, even if Tom often doesn't understand the reasons for his punishment. But if it earns him more nights in the shed, Tom doesn't mind dropping his trousers one bit.  
  
"Come in," the director's voice tells him after Tom knocked on the door twice. When he steps inside the office, he halts, because there's an unfamiliar man sitting in a chair opposite the director.  
  
An unusual looking man who gives him a curious glance, wearing a horrific blue suit, and with long hair and an equally long, graying beard. Tom can't help but think that that man looks like a freak version of Father Christmas.  
  
"Tom, this is Professor Dumbledore."  
  
Tom nods at the man, his hands clasped behind his back while he stands a respectful distance away from the director's desk.  
  
"It seems that your parents signed you up for a boarding school right before they died," the director continues while Tom gives him a blank stare. "And since you've recently had your eleventh birthday, professor Dumbledore has come to inform us that you are expected to enroll in their coming school year."  
  
Tom's stare is still blank, because he has no idea what the director is talking about.  
  
"If I may," the freak Father Christmas says, "perhaps it would be better if I show Tom his new school and explain things to him there. That will also give us an opportunity to purchase his school supplies."  
  
The director nods, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Very well. Tom is a fine student, one of the best in his class. But his behavior can be quite rebellious from time to time, so I do hope you have suitable disciplinary procedures at your school."  
  
"I assure you that we have. I'll make sure Tom returns safely this evening. Good day."  
  
And the strange man puts a hand on Tom's shoulder and steers him out of the director's office. Tom lets him, curious and baffled, and while they walk to the front doors of Abbey Home Tom gives the stranger sideway glances.  
  
"Tell me, Tom," the man says once they are standing outside the orphanage on the sidewalk of Abbey Road. "Have you ever had anything unusual happen when you were angry or sad?"  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Tearing a large chunk off the loaf of bread and dipping it into his bowl of soup, Tom glances up at the professor while he listens to the man's explanations. He sits hunched over his meal inside this weird pub, The Leaky Cauldron he thinks it's called, and tries to comprehend what the professor is saying.  
  
So he is a wizard. And he's supposed to attend a wizarding school in September.  
  
While Tom doesn't trust the professor – he doesn't trust anyone – he does believe him.  
  
He's a wizard.  
  
Well, that does explain some of the things that always happen around him.  
  
Swallowing down a mouthful of bread and soup, Tom sits up a bit and looks at the professor. "Why am I a wizard?" he asks softly. "Were my parents wizards?"  
  
Tom really is curious about that, since he knows nothing about his parents other than that they are dead. And left him to be placed in Abbey Home. Tom wonders why he was placed there if he's a wizard. Don't they have orphanages for wizards specifically?  
  
"Your mother was a witch," the professor says while he sips a cup of tea. "But she died right after she gave birth to you. Your father is a Muggle. A non-magical person."  
  
Blinking, Tom lowers his spoon and looks up at the professor with wide eyes. "My father is a Muggle? But my father is dead."  
  
"Ah, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, dear boy. Your father isn't dead. He left your mother before you were born when he found out she was a witch. Muggles often have difficulties accepting us for what we are."  
  
The oddest sensation, painful and overwhelming, stabs through Tom's chest, as if someone is carving his heart out with a blunt knife.  
  
Every image he ever had of his father is ripped to shreds. The strong, rich, powerful, loving man that has lived inside Tom's mind for eleven years dies at once and is replaced with a heartless, cowardly, brutal bastard.  
  
His father isn't dead. His father just doesn't want him.  
  
The candlestick that provides their small table with shimmering light flies through the air and slams against the far wall of the pub, leaving Tom in shadows and darkness.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Tom tries not to fidget with the buttons on his brand-new, black robes while he waits amongst a group of eleven-year-olds to be sorted. He keeps casting glances around him, taking in all the miraculous details of this massive hall.  
  
He's a wizard. He's at Hogwarts. And he will attend school here for the next seven years. No more cramped classrooms. No more bullying inmates. No more Abbey Home.  
  
He has a purpose now. He's a wizard and he's going to learn magic.  
  
But despite his reluctant excitement, Tom can't help but feel a lot of hesitance as well. He's surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, and while Tom hates Abbey Home, at least he knows what to expect from the other inmates. Here, he has no idea what will happen or how he will be treated. He idly wonders if they have a coal shed and if they paddle students for improper behavior.  
  
While Professor Dumbledore was nice enough when he told Tom about the wizarding world and took him to Diagon Alley to buy his school supplies and his wand, the professor didn't answer all of Tom's questions.  
  
Perhaps because Tom never asked them. He doesn't trust adults. He doesn't like adults, or other children for that matter. He's never been given any reason to like them, and it's hard to ask personal questions of someone you don't trust or like.  
  
"Tom Riddle."  
  
Snapping his gaze up, Tom swallows, and walks towards the stool, not answering the smile Professor Dumbledore gives him before putting that odd- looking hat on Tom's head.  
  
The professor explained about the four houses and how every wizard attending Hogwarts needs to be sorted, but it still doesn't make much sense to Tom. He doesn't really understand the differences between the houses and why he needs to be placed in one.  
  
Suddenly there's a voice inside his head. "Ah, Tom Riddle. I know exactly what to do with you."  
  
Tom holds his breath, sitting stiffly on the stool.  
  
"Slytherin!"  
  
While there's applause around him, Tom swallows and clears his throat. "Why Slytherin?" he asks softly, and he feels the hat wriggle on top of his head.  
  
"Because it is in your blood, child. You are Salazar Slytherin's –"  
  
The hat is pulled off him, and Professor Dumbledore gives him a bright smile before urging him to join his new house mates.  
  
Very aware that every eye in the Great Hall is fixed on him, Tom walks towards the Slytherin table, his gaze lowered, and sits down next to a blond boy who was sorted a few moments before him.  
  
"Riddle. That's not a name I've heard before," the blond boy states. "Where are you from?"  
  
"Abbey Home," Tom replies, giving the boy beside him a wary glance.  
  
The boy raises an elegant eyebrow. "And what is that?"  
  
"An orphanage."  
  
Wrinkling his nose, the boy gives him a look that clearly shows his disgust. Tom ignores it, used to society's view on orphans, until the boy speaks again.  
  
"I take it that it's a Muggle orphanage. Are your late parents Muggles?"  
  
"My father is...was a Muggle. My mother was a witch." Tom has his sharp gaze fixed on the boy, but it seems to have little effect. The boy wrinkles his nose again.  
  
"So you're a half-blood. The sorting hat must be getting senile in its old age, placing you in this noble house."  
  
Several boys and girls around him snicker and giggle and give him disgusted looks. Tom tries not to feel disappointed. It's not very hard, since he had little hope to begin with. Still, he wonders why these children are calling him names. Aren't they all wizards?  
  
He ignores the taunting around him, whispered words of 'half-blood' and 'mudblood' which he doesn't understand. And when the table is suddenly filled with more food than Tom has ever seen, he fills his plate and hooks his arm around it before he chomps down his food, giving anyone who dares look at him a murderous glare.  
  
They can call him names all they want, but he's damned if he'll let them steal his supper as well.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Tracing a trembling finger down the blue lines, Tom stares at the large sheet of parchment for a long time, unable to think or breathe.  
  
He's spent the last two and a half years reading about Salazar Slytherin and his 'noble house', since he couldn't put the things the Sorting Hat told him out of his mind.  
  
At first he read everything he could find in the library, and when he'd exhausted their regular collection, he'd gotten a pass for the Restricted Section. For a DADA project, he'd told the professor, and since he was a model student, they didn't doubt his motives.  
  
And in the Restricted Section he'd found books that told the true story of Salazar Slytherin. How he'd wanted to make Hogwarts into a school for the elite, the purebloods. How he was one of the most powerful Wizards of his time, rumored to be a parsel-mouth and very fond of the Dark Arts.  
  
And how he despised anything Muggle.  
  
It explained to Tom why his house treated him like a lesser human being, like a freak of nature, like an unwanted presence in their perfect clique. And it had raised many questions, because he didn't quite understand why he was placed in Slytherin when obviously no one wanted him there.  
  
But the answer had been in his blood, just like the Sorting Hat had told him.  
  
The spell had been easy: a drop of blood and a short incantation and his family tree appeared on a blank sheet of parchment.  
  
But what he found there was more than he had ever dared hope for.  
  
And suddenly, everything made sense.  
  
His house, his power, his hatred.  
  
Tom stares at the sheet of parchment until the candle that lights his table in one of the shadowy corners of the library extinguishes. But even in the darkness Tom can still see the line tracing from his name all the way up to Salazar Slytherin himself, because that image is burned into his eyes, his mind, his soul.  
  
It explains everything.  
  
His life. His purpose. His destiny.  
  
Clutching the sheet of parchment against his chest, Tom walks down to the Slytherin dungeons, for the first time feeling like he belongs there.  
  
The common room is empty, save for a hunched figure reading in front of the fireplace. Normally, Tom tries to keep a low profile around other Slytherins and spends most of his time in his dormitory or the library, studying and reading.  
  
But not tonight.  
  
"If it isn't Slytherin's own jester. Tom the mudblood." Malfoy looks up at him with a smirk.  
  
Normally, Tom would ignore him.  
  
But not anymore.  
  
Before Malfoy can do so much as blink, Tom has him pinned down to the couch, straddling him, his face not even an inch away from Malfoy's.  
  
"Get off me, you filthy –"  
  
"Call me mudblood one more time, and I will kill you," Tom whispers, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. Malfoy swallows, and wants to say something, but Tom curls one hand around his throat, squeezing the air from his mouth.  
  
Malfoy gasps while Tom gives him a devious smile.  
  
"You have no idea who I am." Feeling like he has come home for the first time in his life, Tom shoves the crumpled sheet of parchment into Malfoy's opened mouth, causing pureblooded Malfoy to gag against the truth: a half- blood who is better than him.  
  
Lowering his head even more, Tom breathes raggedly against the side of Malfoy's face while Malfoy squirms beneath him, unable to throw him off. Tom won't let anyone throw him off ever again.  
  
"I *am* Slytherin."  
  
~~fin~~ 


End file.
